The Potions Mistress
by MoonTiger5
Summary: AU. A young witch dreams of becoming a Potions Mistress. While in pursuit of that dream, she becomes embroiled in the war against Voldemort. Features several OCs and spoilers for all 7 books.
1. Chapter One: Apprentice

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter One: Apprentice**

There was once a young witch whose life's dream was to become a foremost Potions Mistress. She knew that to become the best, she must train under the best. In those days, the best was Severus Tobias Snape, Potions Master at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Great Britain.

I, Marissa Camilla Mellarn, was that young witch. I did not receive a Hogwarts letter, being an American. In fact, I would have simply become a Muggle biochemist had it not been for a fortuitous encounter. I was auditing a biochemistry course at university when I noticed a lady having problems with an object that kept blinking in her hand. Since the Portkey had Muggle-repelling charms on it, the lady realized what I was when I approached her.

The lady's name was Callista Medea Waite, and she was a Potions Mistress. She was in the same course I was auditing, posing as a visiting doctoral student. While we waited for her Portkey's next departure time, we exchanged histories, and she offered to tutor me. I agreed enthusiastically.

A year and a half later, Professor Waite informed me I had the makings of a great potioneer. She also said I should not be content with the likes of her—she evaluated her skills as average. That was when I first heard of Professor Snape. Admission to Hogwarts as a foreign non-traditional student would be difficult. For one, I had no formal magical education—in the United States most magical children are home-schooled, and many stop at the bare basics of accidental magic control. Not to mention I had never been outside North America.

But, as the proverb says, "when there's a will, there's a way." I had already achieved much as a student. I was attending university lectures at thirteen years of age. I had advance-placed into a Muggle high school specialized in the sciences the previous year. Most importantly, I had the unwavering support of Professor Waite, who despite her modesty was an adept at her trade: her name featured in both Muggle and Wizarding journal articles, as lead author in some of them. My parents, long resigned to my anachronistic escapades, agreed to name Professor Waite my legal guardian. That very summer I traveled across the Atlantic.

Our first stop was France, where Professor Waite—Callista, now—lived and taught when she wasn't traipsing the globe furthering her expertise. _L'Acad__é__mie de Magique Beauxbatons_ accepted me on Callista's recommendation. Normally a thirteen year-old going on fourteen would sit in third year, but as a foreigner and a novice I was enrolled in first year. I didn't mind. I had already won the first lap of the race when I landed on European soil. Now was the time to learn and truly absorb all I possibly could, and to forget all about my past as a whiz-kid, genius, gifted child, and all that rubbish. Now I would be just _Marie l'am__é__ricaine, la p__ê__tite fille de Madame Waite_. I would work hard, but I would also relax and enjoy myself.

Still I was a fast learner, and soon enough Headmistress Olympe Maxime approved my advancement to third year in Potions. In all other subjects I stayed a first year, which was quite fine with me. Once again, having reached another immediate goal, I would stand back and focus on my strengths. In those days Callista gave a small picture of Professor Snape, which I framed and placed on my bedside table. _Mes nouvelles amies_ would tease me something horrible, calling me "_Madame_ Snape." I decided to take it as a compliment, for I could not imagine someone like Professor Snape marrying anyone less than his equal.

I spent a year at Beauxbatons before requesting a transfer to Hogwarts with the blessings of Madame Maxime and the rest of my teachers. Callista went ahead to Britain to procure lodgings and to speak to her illustrious colleague. I braced myself for rejection; flattering oneself leads only to disappointment. While I was sure Professor Snape would welcome Callista, taking on an overeager apprentice such as myself was a completely different matter. Professor Snape wouldn't agree to anything until he tested me himself... away from Callista's encouraging presence.

So it was. After many a tearful farewell from _mes amies_ and lots of encouragement from my teachers and Madame Maxime, I followed Callista to Britain at Midsummer. A week later Professor Snape had me brew the most delicate and time-consuming draughts, salves and ointments in the curricula from first through fourth years. It was both the most grueling and most fulfilling summer of my short life so far. Oh, Professor Snape lived up to his reputation as a brutal taskmaster, but I was there for training, not sympathy. Oh, I bet I'll be charged with hallucinating this, with his being so hermetic and abrasive, but Professor Snape did thaw a fraction as I passed each new test.

Soon I realized that the secret to withstanding the barrage of aspersions Professor Snape is so fond of unleashing is to never take it personally. I never quite mastered the famous British stiff upper lip, but I did learn to press my tongue firmly against my teeth, and to pinch myself should the other fail. The Professor eventually came to think well of me, for his voice remained warm even as he lamented that Callista had lost her touch and duped him into accepting a total dunderhead as apprentice. I suppose Snape is an acquired taste.

Hogwarts Castle was a treat. Every time Callista visited—and declared a free afternoon, much to Professor Snape's apparent annoyance—I allowed myself to get lost in the labyrinthine passageways, taking the time to converse with portraits and ghosts alike. I also visited Caretaker Argus Filch regularly, for I became very fond of his cat, Mrs. Norris. I hadn't bothered to adopt a familiar, what with all my studying and traveling, but perhaps now that Britain seemed like to become my home for a while, I might think about it. In the meantime, I kept handy a supply of catnip for Mrs. Norris.

I particularly loved the Hogwarts Library. Madam Irma Pince was very proprietary about the texts under her care; I strove to obey her strictures. In return she was extremely helpful with my research. Before a Master can promote an apprentice to his or her level, the apprentice must submit a magnum opus, through which he or she demonstrates his or her competency. I had a few ideas sparked by that Muggle biochemistry course Callista and I had met at, and these were always simmering in a corner of my mind. Ah, it was my deepest, abiding passion: the art of crafting new ways for life to flow, or change the course of its flowing. No matter how exhausted I felt at the end of the day, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Perhaps this tenacity earned me being Sorted into Hufflepuff House come September. I had heard and read all about Godric Gryffindor's sentient Hat, and how it matched dominant personality traits to House affiliation. Yet a naïve part of me hoped to be matched to my favorite animal crest. Badgers are formidable creatures, and I wore their likeness proudly, but I had a soft spot for serpents. Besides, it would've been closer to the laboratories had I lodged in the dungeons.

Nonetheless my accommodations at Hufflepuff Cellars were fantastic. I had my own room, a circular, warm, airy and most comfortable den. Plus the entrance to the Common Room was close to the kitchens, meaning I could take small liberties with time distribution and still avail myself of good nutrition. However, I was careful not to abuse the hospitality of the Hogwarts House-Elves; Professor Snape wouldn't tolerate otherwise.

Though I was now fifteen years old, I only sat Ordinary Wizarding Level, or OWL year, in Potions. My Head of House, Professor Pomona Sprout, insisted I sit third year despite my previous placement at Beauxbatons. Professors Minerva McGonagall and Filius Flitwick also agreed I should sit third year in all but my strongest suit. It was a great honor.

That year Hogwarts labored under virtual lock down because of the escaped convict Sirius Orion Black. I thought stationing Dementors at school was a major folly: hadn't Black fooled them already? I also found fault with the assumption that Black sought to murder the boy named Harry Potter: why had he not done so thirteen years prior, having been the late Potters' closest confidant? There were more loose ends in the tale, but I didn't pay further attention; I had a special assignment to focus on.

Professor Snape was one of the few Potions Masters with the skill to brew the Wolfsbane Potion and the inclination to do so repeatedly. The potion, which allows a victim of lycanthropy to retain human consciousness during his or her altered state, is a dastardly finicky concoction. A single mistake at any step of the brewing meant discarding the product and starting anew, plus it required a fortnight to complete and another week before being ready to consume. Professor Snape had deemed me capable of not ruining too many batches.

I ruined not a single one. Our resident werewolf, Professor Remus John Lupin of Defense Against the Dark Arts, was very grateful. Professor Snape bore Professor Lupin a palpable animosity, and after once running into Harry Potter while delivering a dose, charged me with Wolfsbane deliveries for the rest of the year. Professor Lupin was an affable, easily approachable man, and I could see why students who cared about such things favored him over Professor Snape. Then again, those students didn't want to become foremost Potions Masters.

Had it not been for the Wolfsbane errands, I would have never become acquainted with Harry Potter. Though we were in the same year in all but one class, we seldom crossed paths. Gryffindor House was most often paired with Slytherin House, and I had no interest in the pursuit of celebrities. I did, however, become interested in learning the Patronus Charm, with the Dementors haunting every entrance to the castle.

I shared Professor Snape's fondness of silence and loathing of small talk. Often it seemed there were only two people in the room during Patronus lessons, instead of three. I made Harry jump regularly whenever I answered a question or attempted a casting. Until I learned Harry could speak to serpents.


	2. Chapter Two: Parselmouth

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Two: Parselmouth**

Parseltongue was said to be an inherited talent exclusive to the descendants of Hogwarts Founder Salazar Slytherin. It was universally assumed that Harry had the ability transferred to him from Lord Voldemort, the notorious megalomaniac who murdered Harry's parents but was thwarted from doing likewise to their year-old son. But advancements, particularly in the sciences, are always heralded by the question, "what if?" What if Parseltongue could be learned? Clearly the twin prejudices against serpents and Slytherins had precluded honest research of the issue. And I never could resist the lure of a good research proposal.

It took me forever to set up, no thanks to Sirius Black and the rest of the surviving Marauders, as the prats called themselves as teenagers. Black, Professor Lupin and the supposedly dead Peter Pettigrew chose the end of that year at Hogwarts for their battle royal, leaving me with frustrated research goals and an intractable Potions Master on top of it. For all that he prizes silence, Merlin forbid anyone from interrupting Master Snape when he makes the racket. I had to wear charmed ear plugs, and if not for news of my Outstanding Potions OWL score, I would've had to add a Permanent Sticking Charm to the plugs.

"It appears Callista did not slip early into her dotage. Good." was all he said—at civilized decibels, thankfully—before shutting up and letting me brew in peace. I would need to work on stronger charms for my ear plugs; after all, I would not be sitting more qualifying exams for some years yet.

Before approaching Harry Potter about my project, I needed a serpent assistant. I decided to procure some mice and set lures. For a while, snakes came but none stayed, until one morning a small constrictor waited in the lure and allowed my touch. Phase one was complete.

Phase two was a bit harder. Professor Snape was liberal in his vitriol against Harry, and I didn't want to court my mentor's ill will. But research called. I finally accosted Harry while he waited to enter the Potions classroom with the other third years. Just as I was asking the Gryffindor to please meet me after class, a loud taunt assaulted my ears.

"Mellarn, are you out of your mind? Snape will throw you out if he finds you consorting with Scarhead!"

I had forgotten Draco Lucius Malfoy. Fortunately, I had learned other things from Professor Snape besides potion making. One of those was how to handle juvenile cheekiness. I smartly pivoted on my heel, causing my robes to billow. I stalked impressively the couple of steps to where Malfoy stood. I molded my facial expression into a combination fearsome scowl and withering glare. I seized Malfoy by an earlobe and pulled sharply.

"How unbecoming one of your station, to show a lady such disrespect." said my lowest icy drawl. "But perhaps you merely voice your own inadequacy. After all, you do tend to consort with rather... questionable folk. It would behoove you to be more selective, Mr. Malfoy."

I returned to the laboratory, still stalking menacingly, and with my lips curled into a sneer. Malfoy's eyes bulged and his pointed face was ghostly pale. Harry gave me a grateful nod as I went past him.

I think having an ally close to the evil greasy git of a Potions Master appealed infinitely to Harry. Two years my junior and scarred by his own trials, Harry remained a boy. This puerility despite experience aggravated Professor Snape most of all. But Harry met me and heard me out then, and afterward consented to help me. Thus I became the first to formally study Parseltongue.

Our sessions, though regular, were few by necessity. That year Harry was shanghaied into the Triwizard Tournament, and the Ministry monitors went along with the insanity. I shared my outrage with my former headmistress, Madame Maxime who headed the Beauxbatons delegation. A few of _mes amies_ were chosen to attend the Tournament, and we spent many a pleasant evening reminiscing. The rest of the time I studied, brewed, and learned to sing in hisses.

My serpent familiar, Uma, was remarkably patient with her tongue-tied but determined human student. By the end of that dreadful year I could hold simple though halting conversations, and understand most everything Uma or Harry said to me.

That year in Potions I brewed a perfect sample of Draught of Living Death, no thanks to Potions Master Libatius Borage, author of the irksomely inaccurate sixth year Potions textbook. Professor Snape found me annotating the page margins, and nearly gave me heart failure by laughing out loud. My instinctive reaction was to suspect my mentor had finally gone mad.

"Professor Snape, sir? Are you quite all right?" When he looked at me, his gaze was startlingly open, his eyes warm with... pride?

"Yes, Miss Mellarn, thanks for inquiring." He Summoned a volume from his bookshelf.

"This, Miss Mellarn, I deem you shall find useful. It is several decades old; please handle it delicately." It was an old battered copy of Borage's text, so heavily annotated the original protocols were hardly discernible. "Property of the Half-Blood Prince," it read for all identification. I stared at my professor, then back at the text, and the epiphany hit me like a Bludger.

"_Et tu_, Professor?" He nodded. "Perchance all future Potions Masters must pass Borage's trial?" He smirked.

"Would that they did, Miss Mellarn. There would be more of us." He indicated the book. "Kindly ignore the evidence of my own juvenile shortcomings contained therein; maintain possession of the tome in strictest privacy, and return it to me once you no longer have need of it." He made to leave, but stopped at the door, and said over his shoulder, "Oh, Miss Mellarn? Do advise Callista that she was correct in her assessment."

I refrained from jumping up and down in joy until I was safely back in my room. Finally I had overcome perhaps the greatest hurdle on my way to Mastery. Professor Snape envisioned me as a future colleague. I sent immediate word to Callista of the accomplishment, and she gifted me with an eagle owl named Atreus, a handsome specimen with such a rich sable plumage it seemed black. The significance of the gift was not lost on me, and I placed Atreus at Professor Snape's disposal.

Now that my probation period was over, Professor Snape focused on polishing my skills more so than on rapidly increasing them. Now that I had become proficient in the science of potions making, I could learn the art.

I was extremely fortunate to have Potions and Uma. They filled all stretches of time available for potential distractions, thus shielding me from the terrible doom that fell upon Wizarding Britain. At the end of that academic year, Lord Voldemort returned to power and claimed his first new handful of victims. Among them was my Housemate Cedric Diggory.

Cedric had been kind and helpful as a prefect and Head Boy, joyful and courteous as a Housemate. He made a habit of becoming close with and watching over everyone. As I mourned for him, I saw the writing on the wall for all of us. The war had begun.

Callista suggested I leave Britain. I replied that I had not audited college lectures at thirteen, crossed the Atlantic and faced her trials at fourteen, run Professor Snape's gauntlet at fifteen and finally earned his esteem at sixteen, only to let war keep me from fulfilling my life's dream. Callista saluted my _cojones_ and observed that my parents were probably bursting with pride. That guilt hook didn't sink either.

That summer Professor Snape began tutoring me in Occlumency. He was a soldier in the effort against Voldemort, and a master spy besides, and he could not afford me as a liability. Good thing I could brew headache cures in my sleep.

As with everything else, the key was a combination of patience, perseverance, and research. Occlumency is basically Wizarding Zen. I added meditation to my morning and evening routines until I was no longer the one with the splitting headache. Professor Snape merely accepted my vial of Pain Relief Draught with a grunt, but he subsequently kept me appraised of news from the front. Attuned by now to my mentor's subtleties of tone and gesture, I did not need much data to correctly deduct the rest.

If Harry was having a terrible summer, the year would only get worse. Tormented by Lord Voldemort, persecuted by the Ministry, ostracized by the general public, mistrusted even by his own Housemates, and patronized by most adults in his life, Harry was on a hair trigger. I think my acquired mannerisms from Professor Snape dissuaded Harry from blowing steam in my presence. Or maybe he simply had such desperate need of an unbiased friend that he dared not risk losing me.

Harry and I recommenced our Parseltongue studies, and soon enough the beleaguered Gryffindor opened up to me and Uma. I listened; it was what I did best. Harry shared his sorrows and fears, his guilt over Cedric's murder and Voldemort's rebirth, his despair that all he had for real family was a most wanted outlaw, and his overwhelming rage.

"You're not Voldemort's keeper, Harry." I told him one day after he shared one of the strange dreams Voldemort sent him through the mind link represented by his famous scar.

"What?"

"You've been practically brainwashed to believe it, but it isn't true, only convenient."

"Huh? What do you mean? Oh, sorry." I must have shot him a Snape-worthy scowl, for after his hasty apology, Harry held onto my every word.

"Let's list the facts. You were raised in isolation from the Wizarding world. So isolated, in fact, that the merest innocent mention of magic was worth a thrashing. You were then thrown into this maelstrom at the deep end, at a most impressionable age I might add, with only Headmaster Dumbledore as flotation aid. Once inducted into the whole Boy Who Lived mythos with its attending gargantuan baggage, you were offered Hogwarts for sanctuary. Then you were hooked and cast rather blithely into Voldemort's path. Predictably, the _Volde-shark_ not just bit but ripped off a huge chunk, and now you've been reeled in and hung up to dry for a bit.

"Excusing my abuse of figurative language, have I left anything out?"

Harry's eyes sparkled mischievously.

"Yeah. You forgot; your boss hates me."

Though I couldn't help laughing along with Harry that one time, as a rule I never spoke of my mentor to my friend and vice versa. Apart from being rude and unethical, it would have caused unnecessary complications. As I partitioned my mind during meditation, so I did with the different aspects of my life. The skill proved invaluable now that I would be sitting the Potions NEWT examination plus the OWLs for all my other subjects. It also served me well when a hitherto dormant part of myself not only woke with a vengeance and nearly killed me, but also provided the matrix for my magnum opus.


	3. Chapter Three: Serpent's Mate

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Three: Serpent's Mate**

Hindsight is ever perfect; I often think I should have expected what happened. What with Parseltongue lessons, OWL review sessions, Defense Against the Dark Arts clandestine practices and Potions/Occlumency tutoring, Harry and I were practically living together. Harry was no longer physically a boy, having undergone his growth spurt and other pubertal developments. I had been precocious myself, though I had only paid clinical attention to the subject. Harry's only previous experience had been his brief crush with Cho Chang, Ravenclaw House's Quidditch Seeker. That affair was doomed by Chang's ambivalence between the memory of Cedric and the reality of Harry. But now Harry and I found ourselves attracted and available.

I was treating Harry to a massage, for stress relief after a particularly vicious encounter with Professor Dolores Jane Umbridge, Undersecretary to the Minister of Magic, stationed at Hogwarts that year to rein in Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. As usual I had become absorbed in the task at hand, kneading away tension knots and soothing muscle spasms. Yet when Harry twisted abruptly, seized my hands and rolled me under him, and began devouring my mouth like a starving man, I did not rebuff him. I surrendered to his sweet plundering mouth and his callused roaming hands, allowed him to rut against me like a wild animal, and when he had taken his pleasure, I granted him leave to guide me to mine. We agreed that repeat performances would be welcome.

However delightful our sexual explorations, I would not tolerate indiscretions or breaches of decorum. I would allow neither Voldemort nor teenage hormones to jeopardize my professional goals. My relationship with Harry would not be a dirty secret, but we would conduct ourselves in public as if "my boss" were chaperoning us.

My attitude garnered me the approval and support of Hermione Jane Granger, Harry's closest female friend. Had I shared her enthusiasm for academic competition, we would have been at each other's throats. Hermione and I were evenly matched, making OWL review sessions almost as pleasurable as time alone with a randy Harry. Of course, neither of those compared to the allure of the softly simmering cauldron, as Professor Snape always declaimed before every new batch of first years.

Then disaster struck... or was it providence? Either way I grappled with adversity and made lemonade out of lemons; I wasn't going to snuff it without my Mastery.

Harry had been ordered to learn Occlumency from Professor Snape. In truth, he learned it from me; there was simply too much unresolved animosity between my mentor and my boyfriend. The night a distraught and disheveled Harry showed up at the entrance to the Hufflepuff Common Room asking for me, no explanations were needed. But Harry told me everything anyway.

Curiosity overrode common sense, driving Harry to sneak a look into the Pensieve containing memories Professor Snape wished not to expose during Occlumency sessions. Harry became privy to the reason for my mentor's negative attitude where the Gryffindor was concerned. Harry's father James and the notorious Marauders had made the bookish young Professor Snape the target of their constant and vicious bullying. My mentor had been of so little consequence to the teenage Marauders that they considered hurting him a public service. An appalled Harry had braved the ire of Madam Umbridge and her Inquisitorial Squad to corroborate the information with his godfather and Remus Lupin; their reply was simply ghastly.

Harry's need for comfort and my sympathy promptly ignited other urges in both of us. So far I had not bedded Harry; I thought the full sexual coupling entailed a commitment level adults were right to deem adolescents unprepared for. Then again, when had I or Harry been normal teenagers?

As our bodies proceeded on their quest, Harry and I linked our minds through Legilimency, seeking more fulfillment than mere physical joining could provide. I completely forgot the reason for Harry to learn Occlumency in the first place. As randy as Harry could be, there was a sweet awkwardness to his ministrations that brought me far greater contentment than even completion. It suddenly vanished.

A cold, ruthless, impersonal mechanicity replaced it, as if I was no longer held by an affectionate teenager, but used by a jaded old patron come to call at the nearest whorehouse. Which it actually was.

"Harry?"

"Harry?" A high pitched, cruel voice mocked me. My eyes no longer gazed upon sparkling emerald but on glinting crimson. The arms around me were no longer bronzed and warm but pale and gelid. There were no more caresses to be had; here were claws set to rend my skin and deliver only pain.

"Lord Voldemort." The thin lip less mouth curved in a feral sneer, and the scourge of the Cruciatus Curse made me bite my tongue to suppress a scream.

"Yes, mudblood whore, and let that be the only time you utter it, or you will live even less than I have planned."

Oh, joy.

There is always an instant before a great commotion, a split second of unimpeded clarity that generates a fleeting sensation of absolute stillness, as if the entire cosmos held its collective breath before the cataclysmic plunge. During that ineffable moment I came to terms with my mortality, but I did not like my odds. Surely I would die; everyone does, even phoenixes and Dark Lords like the one straddling my half nude form... but I'd be damned if I kicked the bucket while not yet a Potions Mistress!

"My humblest apologies, my lord. May I ask to what do we owe the honor of your presence?"

Voldemort cackled. Humor is said to be the best medicine; then I had occasion to learn it is also the best insurance policy. Even bloodthirsty tyrants have a funny bone; Voldemort turned out to have a big one, connected right to his vanity.

"So you have more wits than your hapless would-be lover. It will not save you, but it has bought you time.

"Having become this close," he said with the most grotesque leer I've ever been subjected to, "you are surely privy to my and Harry's history. You will now help write its ending."

"How so, my lord?"

"Simple," he declared with an all-encompassing gesture. "There is something young Harry here has refused to do for me this year.

"You see, fifteen years ago a prophecy was made about the two of us, naming Harry as my future slayer. Naturally, I set out to foil it, with most displeasing results.

"I have since learned that the prophecy as relayed to me was incomplete. I wished to hear it in its entirety, to which end I attempted to lure Harry into procuring its record for me from the Hall of Prophecy located in the Department of Mysteries. But something kept interfering.

"I knew Dumbledore had the boy tutored in Occlumency. However, the old fool entrusted that duty to my loyal servant; doubtless it would fail. But it did not. The boy actually succeeded in barring me from his mind.

"At first I suspected my servant of double-crossing me, but his own mind absolved him. I continued my search... and it finally led me straight to you.

"Now I know why Dumbledore always prattled on about love. It is no mystery after all. You desire him to live, therefore you shield him from me. Just like his foolish mother did.

"Since I cannot reach him without going past you, I will remove you. But first... why not pass through you?"

Voldemort meant to add me to the list of casualties to taunt Harry with, and before he wolfed me down, he would play with me. I don't doubt romantic Gryffindors would have preferred me to fight valiantly before dying a heroic death protecting the Boy Who Lived. I am no _Jeanne d'Arc_... or Lily Potter returned from the dead. I am a survivor.

"As you wish, my lord."

"For a Hufflepuff, there is remarkably much Slytherin in you."

I surrendered to the Dark Lord. He was cruelly, mercilessly violent. He used me like a whore indeed, but I was the best whore he ever used, by Voldemort's own words before he readied to cast the Killing Curse. And I lived.

Life was my sole objective that night; I applied myself to it with my customary zeal. I held onto that gaunt pale body like a vise, my legs forcefully girdling his waist, my hands clutching his bony shoulders. I bid my throat sing lustful moans and my inner muscles spasm rhythmically with every savage thrust or blow. I committed my outrage, sense of dignity and every possible objection to one of my myriad mental compartments. For that macabre night, I was the Serpent's Mate. And I lived.

I even reached completion several times; once so intensely that Lord Voldemort shimmered into Tom Marvolo Riddle, and I wished he hadn't undergone his horrid metamorphosis. Tom had been handsome, lithe and strong, his soft, wavy sable mane and chiseled aristocratic features highlighted by midnight blue eyes that shone with proud intelligence. I raised a bruised hand to caress tenderly that breathtaking human visage, and was rewarded with a drop of gorgeous lashes and a sigh of pleasure.

"Tom..."

The lovely azure flashed to slitted crimson, and a bony hand struck my face.

"Don't call me that!"

I moaned lowly, tightening my body's grip, and the monstrous Voldemort vanished once more in a shower of sparks.

"Marvolo!"

For that ephemeral most precious of instants, _je suis Belle_, and I embraced and kissed and murmured sweet nothings _au Prince qu'il aurait pu __ê__tre, si la B__ê__te desalm__é__e n'avait jamais exist__é__e_.

And I lived.

After reasserting his possession, Voldemort indulged in his usual grand preamble to the Killing Curse. I listened with one ear; another sound caught my other. It was a pitiful sobbing as of a wounded animal; quick as thought I spied its source. A flayed bundle of flesh, more dead than alive, mewled its hopeless plea to oblivion. In our shared mindscape, Harry lay curled and sobbing beside me; Voldemort strutted and orated above us, and the heap of embryonic offal quivered across from us, unseen to all but me. My hand closed around my wand, hitherto concealed under the shreds of my pillow, just as Voldemort raised his.

In the minute interval between _Avada_ and _kedavra_, I mouthed a Summoning Charm. The malformed, moribund creature sailed into my outstretched arms, catching the jet of sickly green light fully on. Our mindmeld collapsed and only I remained, battered and bloody on my ravaged bed, an unconscious Harry draped over me, his phallus still pulsating within me.

And we lived.

The next hour was grim work. I Summoned a dose of Pain-Relieving Draught, chasing it with one of Blood-Replenishing Draught and another of a general Healing Draught. I levitated Harry onto a nearby couch. I Vanished all evidence of violence and left only disarranged sheets and tell-tale pools of bodily fluids. I drew a warm bath, cleansed away the blood and gore, and afterward covered myself in a dittany-based salve.

Harry was still unconscious by the time I was finished, but I roused him enough to gently modify his memory with images of the first time for two clueless teenagers. After cleaning Harry and soothing him back to sleep, I downed a dose of Dreamless Sleep and abandoned myself to oblivion, my fingers tangled in Harry's soft locks against my breast.

The morning after would've been hilarious, were it not for the preceding tragedy. Since I had excised Harry's awareness of the debacle, I forgave him his chauvinistic insensibility. When he declared he felt invigorated—"brilliant" was how he repeatedly put it—I smiled. When he discovered our nude entwined bodies and the evidence of our activities, I did my best to reassure him. Nonetheless Harry bolted.

Only after he left Hufflepuff Cellars did I surrender to my overarching need for catharsis.

What I did not soon forgive was Harry's monumental breach of decorum and discretion. Hermione later told me how Harry blurted out that he'd taken the virginity of Snape's assistant to his friend Ronald Bilius Weasley. Ronald in turn broadcast it to the whole Gryffindor male dormitories. When Hermione heard the commotion, she served each of her best friends a brutal slap to the face, action subsequently emulated by almost every Gryffindor female. Slytherin House took the opportunity to act against their traditional rivals, and soon an army of knights in rusty armor baited, pranked and bullied Gryffindors in general and Harry in particular, ostensibly in defense of my honor. Healer Poppy Pomfrey joined the campaign by proving less than diligent in discharging her duties whenever Gryffindors were concerned.

For my part, I made a quick study of Disillusionment or Notice-Me-Not Charms. For a month I wore those constantly, removing them only while in class or at work. Hermione had to use Harry's infamous Marauders' Map to locate me elsewhere than the dungeons or Hufflepuff Cellars outside regular class times. Professor Snape respected my privacy, but he mercilessly trounced Gryffindor House in terms of House points and detentions.

My deflowering by Harry Potter had other repercussions. Since the misdeed occurred under Professor Umbridge's tenure as headmistress and High Inquisitor, her competence for said posts was duly questioned and found wanting. Professor Umbridge was immediately dismissed and Professor Dumbledore subsequently reinstated as headmaster.

Headmaster Dumbledore promptly inquired into the situation. I stated unambiguously that my tryst with Harry had been fully consensual, but that Harry, regrettably, had panicked and reacted as disgustingly as popular rumor claimed. The fallout from my declaration was rather disproportionate. If Harry had been persecuted before, now he was outright hated. The Gryffindor was forced into virtual reclusion by Howlers pelting him, students bullying him, Professors either viciously tormenting him (Snape) or studiously ignoring his existence (McGonagall), and his godfather avoiding any mention of the Elephant in the Sitting Room.

Adolescent psyches can only endure so much punishment. A month after that fateful night, Harry tracked me down, knelt before me and besought me to take personal retribution as the true wronged party. In the interest of moving on, I broke his nose and herniated his testicles. Healer Pomfrey prolonged Harry's recovery for a fortnight; Professor Snape awarded five hundred points to Hufflepuff, and all of Wizarding Britain cheered the American expatriate who cut the Git Who Lived down a score of sizes.


	4. Chapter Four: Madam Potter

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Four: Madam Potter**

But there would be no return to normality. As a dedicated scientist, I monitored myself as closely as any of my experimental subjects. I first noted the mild spells of dizziness, followed by regular bouts of morning—in my case, evening—sickness. When my moon days elapsed without their usual manifestation, I only lacked a Healer's confirmation that I was with child.

Due to the heinous circumstances of the conception, my reproductive system was likely neither up to the challenge nor up to a termination. Then my disjointed brainstormings over a Masterwork subject coalesced into a grand design. I would coax the tiny clump of cells to full development, birth a healthy son or daughter, and spite Voldemort worse than Lily Potter ever did.

Traditionally, Masterworks are conducted independently by apprentices; mentors limit themselves to being available for consultations, and evaluating the final product. Apprentices could enlist help from outside sources; I decided to recruit Healer Pomfrey first of all. She consented to help me and maintain the details of my methodologies under strict confidence. However, she also imposed a deadline of two months to advise Harry and the headmaster of my condition.

First order of business was creating a controlled environment for the developing fetus. I required expert assistance in Charms; thus I added Professor Flitwick to the team. With his guidance I developed the design for a protective and sustaining garment akin to the Muggle isolation suits. I included the entire Hogwarts staff and the top students in each subject in the prototype trials. In two months time I had in my hands the finished product, dubbed a Stillsuit, which guaranteed the integrity of complex lifeforms against any environmental insult except concerted magical attacks.

Before exposing myself to another media circus, I requested Callista's and Healer Pomfrey's permission to sit my Potions NEWT and remaining subject OWLs in relative peace. I also swore Callista and Poppy to secrecy via Unbreakable Vows, after unburdening to them every sordid detail of the affair and my most conservative prognosis. Only after I completed my last examination did I request an audience with Harry and Headmaster Dumbledore.

Harry fainted three times before Callista's threat to chop him up for potions ingredients forced him to snap out of his panic attack. Another threat, this one from Poppy, of gutting him like a pig should he act the least dishonorably, spurred Harry to finish pulling himself together. The unnerved Gryfindor then requested to speak to me privately.

We stood looking at each other mutely for a while, before I sat and Harry came to kneel before me.

"Is it true?"

I nodded smilingly.

"You're having our baby?"

"In six months if all goes well."

"You... don't hate me?"

"I never have, Harry. This is a precious gift; all I feel is great joy."

Harry gulped and blurted an unintelligible mouthful. I asked him to repeat himself, and he met my eyes in a soul-locking gaze while his hands grasped mine tenderly.

"Will you marry me, Marissa?"

I seriously considered refusing. Harry and I were fifteen and seventeen years old respectively, for Merlin's sake! How dared we undertake such a serious commitment as marriage? Plus I wouldn't set aside my professional goals—Harry had no idea how entwined those were with my pregnancy. Then again, I am but flesh and blood... and emotions.

I accepted, smiling warmly as I granted the Weasley family leave to indulge every flight of fancy in the coordination of the wedding celebration. The move allowed me to dedicate myself to the setup of my protocols and the exhaustive research of every aspect of my experimental design, all of which I cross- and double-checked with Poppy and Callista. It even happened that, with only an hour before the ceremony was due to begin, I was nowhere to be found. On a hunch, Callista asked Professor Snape to check the dungeons. Sure enough, I was absorbed in my brewing, thankfully already in my wedding robes, veil and crown under the Stillsuit. Professor Snape waited for a safe point to interrupt, and for the second time in my life I heard my mentor's honest laughter.

"My dear Miss Mellarn! What a magnificent prank on all those Gryffindors! Yet as much as I sympathize, Callista is on their side."

My smirk was worthy of Salazar Slytherin himself.

"Well then, my dear Professor Snape! Let our mischief not be thwarted! Would you do me the honor of escorting me, and standing witness alongside Callista? That ought to trigger a collective Gryffindor apoplexy, don't you think?"

Professor Snape gallantly offered me his black-clad arm.

Perhaps my stunt unhinged the Dark Lord. Apparently news of my wedding to Harry and my pregnancy drove him to attack the Ministry of Magic in a desperate bid to seize the prophecy record. Voldemort only succeeded in blowing his cover and getting all but one of his accompanying Death Eaters captured, while Magical Law Enforcement reported only one casualty. On top of that, Voldemort went away empty-handed. The orb containing the record of the prophecy shattered at the Dark Lord's touch. The rules of the game had changed, and it was my doing.

Closer to home, my prank definitely flummoxed Sirius Black, and earned me the solemn veneration of the Weasley twins. Finally, Harry remonstrated with Sirius until the Animagus admitted the Marauders had it coming, Sirius conceded defeat and embraced me into the family, saying Lily would have approved. Harry almost wept upon hearing that.

Later that night Harry did shed tears of joy. Our tender joining was true worship of each other's mind and body, uninterrupted except for the seconds between breaths or heartbeats. Harry's clever hands, sweet mouth and eager manhood made me sing my bliss.

"Harry!"

"Marissa!"

Harry and I acquired a cozy cottage in the residential section of Hogsmeade village. Domestic life was relaxing: Harry basked in the glory of working because he wanted to, and discovered Potions Mistresses were culinary goddesses.

Still I veered not from my project. I had to anticipate each of my child's developmental stages, prepare the necessary potions, supplements and physical routines. I methodically recorded my hundreds of hours of research in a charmed journal I always carried on my person, in case of any impromptu epiphanies. Harry accepted my explanation for the secrecy until I was ready to undergo my Mastery evaluation. I did occasionally bounce ideas off my husband, and shared isolated fragments of my procedures. Then one day Harry unknowingly led me to a breakthrough.

He saw me absorbed in the research journal, with Uma curled around my shoulders like a shawl.

"Whoa! That's creepy, Mari!"

I blinked owlishly up at my husband.

"What's creepy, dearest?"

"You were writing in that diary with Uma looking on, and it reminded me of Tom Riddle."

A sudden pang across my stomach made me double over, alarming Harry.

"Mari? Mari, love, are you... is our baby...?"

I clung to him for support, and steadied my breath.

"We'll... be fine. Just... Hospital Wing... please."

It was the first of many anguished close calls. At every new, more complex developmental stage, my child demanded more resources and support, requiring faster reaction times. The beginning of each new phase was a trial to see if my baby could remain viable. Each step was also cumulative. I felt I walked on a tightrope strung between two mountain peaks, high amid eternal snows and air too thin to breathe unassisted.

But that first time, while Harry and I waited for Poppy to discharge me, Harry explained what he meant about my journal. He shared the tale of his face-off with the young Voldemort in the Chamber of Secrets, and how he slew Slytherin's basilisk with the aid of Fawkes the phoenix and wielding Gryffindor's sword.

"Is the carcass still there?"

"I suppose, why?"

I flashed my husband a blinding smile.

"Dearest, I must tell Callista at once. An expedition is in order."

Harry paled.

"You... want to go... there?"

I raised a hand to that stricken face.

"We'll make good out of the evil that so harrowed you, husband mine."

Pity that Professor Snape was otherwise occupied. Cleared of its deplorable state of ruin, Slytherin's Chamber was breathtaking. The House-Elves did a marvelous job of freshening and conditioning the site. Callista and I spent hours harvesting and cataloguing our treasure trove while Harry sat absorbed in thought. Later he told me he had made his peace with the place he inevitably associated with evil.

We ended up with large enough stores of basilisk components that we decided to send word to Potions Masters worldwide. The response was enthusiastic and impacted directly on the composition of Hogwarts faculty for the upcoming year. Our basilisk cache lured Potions Master Horace Slughorn out of retirement; he would teach Potions while Professor Snape taught Defense Against the Dark Arts. The change would have no bearing on my apprenticeship, but I would assist Professor Slughorn with his lessons.

Which breakthrough did the basilisk signify? Though the creature's venom is its best-known product, it was the skin which I incorporated into the Stillsuit design. The resulting Skinsuit was impregnable battle armor. During the prototype trials, I spied Headmaster Dumbledore fingering the garment wistfully. He had received a deadly injury to one of his hands; out of pity, I made him a belated gift of another unit, the only other I crafted then.

Attending classes as a married couple was complicated. Though my and Harry's home received every protection possible, the headmaster requested my husband stay in Gryffindor Tower on weeknights. I remained a Hufflepuff, but Flooed home at day's end. Thankfully my fellow students proved more supportive than the headmaster. Family was paramount even to the most recalcitrant purebloods—a fact the deprived Voldemort never comprehended.

Only my skill at compartmentalization—if ever asked to think out of the box, I would need to know which one—enabled me to make my marriage to Harry last as long as it did under such adverse circumstances. Harry lived for our time together. The promise of holding me, making love to me, showering his affections upon my distended belly; only these kept Harry sane as the noose tightened round his throat.


	5. Chapter Five: Mastery and Loss

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Five: Mastery and Loss**

We would like to think ourselves inured to tragedy, particularly when it's expected. Many suffered before Voldemort was vanquished; only the extremely naïve did not brace themselves against the blows. Still it's one thing to summon devils, another very different to see them come.

I had planned for life. Perhaps too zealously, perhaps I too was guilty of narrow-minded obsession. Perhaps I aimed too high, forgetting I was but one fallible human. Yet I came so close to the miracle, so beyond my highest hopes... Perhaps I miscalculated.

I knew my baby's greatest trial would be his birth. Within my womb he was nurtured on magic and potions crafted from such hallowed substances as freely given unicorn blood and phoenix tears. With his bearer ensconced within the safe haven of Stillsuit and Skinsuit, life was easy and death kept at bay. The outside world would not be so forgiving. When the time came to leave that paradisaical sanctuary, when the placenta was severed, when lungs had to breathe, heart to beat, brain to lead—my son would be on his own. Perhaps it was the instinct I shared with every mammalian female. I desperately wished my son to live, despite my impressive façade.

"_Merde_."

Professor Snape looked up at my softly uttered profanity. He scrutinized me minutely; his eyes widening as he realized my predicament. I staggered, clutching my spasming abdominal bulge, a hand grasping at the nearest bench for support. Under the translucent Skinsuit, the lower half of my robes was drenched in crimson fluid.

Professor Snape caught me as my knees buckled from the searing pain. He lowered me gently to the floor, holding me against his chest with one arm while the other swept his wand over my crumpled, quaking form. When he met my gaze, his fathomless orbs were open, revealing his sincerity.

"Madam Potter..."

I forestalled him with a trembling hand.

"Please... excuse me... must indulge in... rather prolix... displays of... sickening... sentimentality."

The much feared and despised Potions Master Severus Snape shed his own formidable emotional barriers. Tears fell from his beetle-black eyes and down his hooked nose, and his drawl wavered and broke as he carded long sallow fingers through my hair in gentle comfort.

"Dear lady... contrary to the sordid elucubrations of the juvenile public... I am flesh, blood and beating heart... and it goes out to you, damn it!"

My mentor hoisted me in his arms with infinite care, and strode purposely and rapidly toward the Hospital Wing. I released my control completely, and sobbed, wept and wailed against the firm, warm black-clad chest. Students took one look at us and made way, while word sped from one Gryffindor to another until it reached my husband.

Harry stormed into the infirmary with the glint of madness in his eyes. His friends struggled in vain to keep him from charging Professor Snape.

"What did you do to my wife, Snape! You hurt my son, bastard Death Eater!"

Harry brandished his wand, likely about to cast an Unforgivable. Only my heart-piercing shriek froze everyone on their tracks.

"Harry, please!"

Professor Snape magically restrained Harry while my husband hesitated.

"Mr. Potter. Your wife is in agony. She and your son fight for their lives while you act the complete imbecile. I shall presently release you, but should you fail to come to your senses and give the lady what comfort you can, I swear your sick fancies of me will pale before what I shall visit upon you. Is... that... clear?"

Harry nodded dumbly, and dashed to my side to clasp my shuddering hands. My mentor then turned at a timid question from Hermione.

"Professor? Is Marissa... ?"

The Potions Master heaved a mournful sigh.

"She is dying together with her child, Miss Granger. Neither is expected to survive the night."

"But how?"

"Madam Potter has had a most delicate pregnancy, Miss Granger. She undertook the strictest security measures and put her considerable potion making talent to use in a herculean effort to carry her child to term. However, birth is a harrowing process in the best of circumstances. In these, it is an uphill battle."

"She never said..."

"No, Miss Granger. For all that her husband has been among the worst of the insufferable procession of dunderheads I have had to teach, Madam Potter has been a magnificent, shining exception. She has come the closest I have ever seen to actually putting a stopper in death."

"You admire her."

"Indeed, Miss Granger. Should we lose her tonight, she will die as the youngest Potions Mistress in history to achieve the title with highest honors. You have my permission to tell her this, should you be able. I pray you are, Miss Granger."

Midwinter... my light flickered, guttered out.

Perhaps my son was the consummate Ravenclaw—too enamored of conundrums to spend even a minute this side of the Veil.

Christmas... my child was stillborn.

Perhaps my baby decided to haunt the Stillsuit. Poppy and Callista shelled me out of the Skinsuit but the other wouldn't budge. My heart was so tired—the Stillsuit's magic forced it to beat on.

Boxing Day... a simple burgundy casket tooled in gold for a perfectly formed little body... a fitting display for a porcelain doll of exquisite beauty, lifelike but inert.

Hermione's voice, weaving in and out of my consciousness: ten Outstanding OWLs... a perfect-score NEWT... youngest, most honored Potions Mistress ever... Mastery granted by the legendary Severus Snape!

I could not care less.

New Year's... my fingers moved... Callista and Poppy carried me out, Stillsuit fused to my flesh. James Sirius Potter's final resting place faced the Forbidden Forest. Harry went berserk and had to be restrained by his godfather and the rest of the Order of the Phoenix.

Another week... Callista persuaded Poppy I should be moved from the Hospital Wing. My and Harry's Hogsmeade cottage became a shrine. Harry became a supplicant at my bedside.

The endless procession began... all Professors... Dumbledore's Army... Order of the Phoenix... students from all four Houses... even Mr. Filch... Mrs. Norris curled next to Uma, one purring and the other hissing, "we're here for you, dear human."

The voices, beseeching me to fight... Hermione, reading me assignments... Ginevra Weasley, pleading with me to not abandon Harry... Neville Longbottom, sharing his own tale of woe... Luna Lovegood, expounding on a plethora of fantastic creatures and improbable phenomena... Ronald Weasley, humming, no idea what to say... Poppy and Callista, whispering assurances to Harry that I would be fine; one of them would always be close by; he must eat, sleep and go to class... Professor Snape, reading me potions ingredients preparation and brewing procedures; switching to classics and poetry when no one else was listening.

I felt Headmaster Dumbledore's piercing blue gaze burn me, calculating, scheming... Professor Snape broke our accustomed silence on such topics to confide how infuriating his sixth year Defense lessons had become, and that Dumbledore was instructing Harry privately, information my husband confirmed. Dumbledore was training Harry for a kamikaze operation, to search and destroy Voldemort's Horcruxes before heroically taking the megalomaniac down in a blaze of glory. The perfect plan a wretched master manipulator concocted around the stereotypical Gryffindor lamebrain. I lost all compassion for the wretched old man then; there would be no tears of mine at his death. After all, he had planned even that.

Perhaps my outrage gave the Stillsuit the final push it needed to break through my body's despondency. After a month and a half I woke from the coma, and all could return to a pitiful semblance of normalcy. I begged Callista to return to France; she acquiesced only after I swore to report to Poppy every other day. I could've passed for a member of the Hogwarts ghost population: my emaciated frame ambulating like a victim of the Dementor's Kiss, the tears bathing my face and my translucent protective garments gave me a spectral halo. I went through my usual motions; did everything timely and impeccably as always, but now it was mechanical, impersonal, lifeless.

The procession of visitors dwindled to only my teachers and closest friends. Then came the rumors... the slander. I placed my career above my own and my son's life... was chummier than was healthy with Slytherins... could I be an agent of Voldemort's, sent to derail Harry from his mission? My husband, who had clung desperately to my side while I was bedridden, moved back to Gryffindor Tower. Dumbledore's grand design was flawlessly executed. After the old coot's funeral, Harry came after me.

"Is it true?"

He need not elaborate.

"Nothing I say will make a difference."

"You won't even defend yourself?"

"I loved you and our son."

Harry snapped.

"You lying bitch! All you cared about was your bloody Potions Mastery! That was the price Snape paid for you! You deserve death like that filthy murderer!"

Harry found himself bound, gagged and hanging upside down in midair before he could blink. It was my turn to go berserk.

"Your own words and deeds far outstrip any Dark spells or potions, Potter!

"_Canard de merde! Tu n'est rien que_ Dumbledore's obedient moronic imbecilic Gryffindor errand boy!

"_Bien, cela que tu m'accuse, c'est tout vrai! Regarde-toi maintenant la plus terrible des monstres! J'ai tu__é__ mon propre fils, et je vais te tuer aussi! Crucio!_"

I became a Gorgon, with Uma rearing over my disheveled hair and Atreus mantling from my shoulder. I blasted Potter clear across town after Cruciating him thoroughly, and then leveled the cottage and set fire to the ruins. I sent Atreus to Callista with the chronicle of my disgrace and a plea for her to flee Europe. I would've released Uma also, but she refused to leave my side.

I stayed close, much like Black had done three years before. I even made the Shrieking Shack my regular haunt. My wandering path spiraled into and out from my son's grave. Every day I knelt before the sober headstone for hours, first washing it, then wreathing it in vines and flowers, and finally setting the offerings aflame like a sacrifice, all the while keening like a banshee.


	6. Chapter Six: Death Eater

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Six: Death Eater**

That summer, Lord Voldemort consolidated his power over Wizarding Britain. I only found out because not even banshees can mourn forever. Slowly I raved and wept less and less, until one day the fog of madness lifted, leaving only a cold desire for vengeance.

I sat before the slab, restoring order within my mind. As I trawled through my memories, I revisited my son's conception. I may have chosen to love Potter as my child's father, but it wasn't he that lay with me that night. I cackled with glee, and turned my wand upon the headstone, charming it to read "Tom Marvolo Riddle, Jr." whenever Potter, Voldemort, or any who bore the Dark Mark gazed upon it.

I also realized something else. Potter had been a Horcrux himself. I surmised the old wretch wouldn't have told his boy the truth... no, he would task someone else to do it, at the time such a revelation could have the greatest impact... be the perfect trigger for his weapon. But it was no longer true! The mutilated creature I offered to Voldemort's Killing Curse was undoubtedly the resident soul fragment! Would I be charitable and send word to Potter before he suicided unnecessarily? Oh, no! My ex-husband could rot in hell!

My prank with the headstone led to my discovery one September afternoon.

"Mellarn? What the...?"

Draco Malfoy.

"Hello Draco. So you took the Dark Mark."

His eyes widened.

"How did you know? You were... indisposed."

I gestured to the inscription that had him mesmerized.

"You can read it."

He whistled in admiration.

"Not everyone can read it? Ah, you wanted to spite Potter. Good for you, if a bit... Gryffindorish."

"Being married to the cretin had to corrupt me somehow."

Draco doubled over in laughter. We shared the mirth for a while. Then Draco sobered and looked at me speculatively.

"So, who can read it?"

"Besides Potter? The Dark Lord and all who bear his Mark."

Draco's look turned to worry.

"Mellarn... you actually mean to join? Not that I don't sympathize, but... let's say it's a hazardous occupation."

The mercury eyes shone with remembered grief. At my prompt, Draco shared the sad tale of his father's fall from Voldemort's favor, reducing his noble family to hostages in their own home. I comforted the blond Slytherin, and after a while he turned and looked at me intently.

"Will you sit seventh year? Snape's Headmaster now."

My eyebrows rose sharply. Draco smiled wryly.

"He's replaced my father as the Dark Lord's favorite."

"How convenient. Well, Draco, would you kindly escort me to my former mentor?"

"Former? Oh, right, he granted you Mastery before..."

"After my son's death, actually, and you may speak freely of it. I'm done grieving."

"That's great. Mellarn... you'll have to go before the Dark Lord."

"And be Sorted into Slytherin afterward, I expect. Lead on, Draco; I've eaten enough death to shrink from it now."

Voldemort was just as I remembered him. Not even Professor Snape had mustered the guts to tell him that looking like a comic book villain isn't very impressive once the shock wears out. Though as _de facto_ ruler of Wizarding Britain he didn't need concern himself with public opinion. That was the job of the Imperiused puppet he had occupying the post of Minister.

"Potions Mistress Marissa Mellarn, my lord," sniveled one Peter Pettigrew. "Severus speaks for her."

"It's the Potter slut, Master!" crowed one Bellatrix Lestrange.

"_I may have been—lamentably—mated to the Potter brat for a short while, but first and foremost I was yours, Master_." declared I with a deep reverence... and in Parseltongue.

Voldemort gaped, smirked and finally cackled hysterically. Standing from his throne he strolled toward me, circling closer and closer until we stood as close as the night we... met. I closed my eyes with a sigh as a long cold finger trailed down my cheek, pausing under my chin to lift it till our eyes met. Crimson locked with amethyst as I willed him to see our entwined bodies that night, my punishment of Potter's indiscretion, my diligent work under Professor Snape, my friendship toward Slytherins, and my final torture of Potter and the destruction of the home I had shared with my ex-husband. I offered to the Dark Lord my abject hatred and desire for vengeance against Dumbledore, until Voldemort sighed appreciatively in turn.

"_We share the sentiment, girl. How is it you Speak_?"

"_By my teaching, Master_," piped Uma from around my shoulders.

Cackling once more, Voldemort held out an arm to Uma.

"_You are bold, little one. And you found her worthy_?"

Uma gave the serpent equivalent of a shrug.

"_For a human she suffices, Master_."

After another cackle, Voldemort stepped behind me, drawing me close against his chest while he held out my left wrist and pressed the tip of his wand against it.

"_Morsmordre_," he crooned, and I arched against him, moaning as if in the throes of greatest pleasure, though the curse elicited pain much like the Cruciatus. He held the curse until I twisted, coiled around his gaunt frame, and willed myself to reach completion before collapsing boneless and breathless against him.

"My lord!"

"Mine," gloated Voldemort.

"_Yours, Master_," I hissed.

Bellatrix was furious.

The masterful performance earned me my most peaceful school year. Hogwarts was severely underpopulated; it would become only more so as parents took their children with them into hiding, or the Dark Lord authorized their kidnappings for extortion purposes... or Neville Longbottom recruited them to the reinstated Dumbledore's Army. Though the group's name irked me, I did not hinder them and even gave them a few helpful nudges. But my chief concern was academics. I had been named Head Girl in Hermione's stead.

The Professors loyal to the Order of the Phoenix treated me kindly. I could see the guilt in their lowered eyebrows and stiff smiles, but only Professor McGonagall voiced hers, lamenting the rash actions grief had driven me to. The Dark Arts Master, Amycus Carrow, was another story. Apparently Bellatrix had him in her pocket—or perhaps he was jealous on his own. Either way he soon learned to fear my arm, with a wand or without.

The Sorting Hat needed no incentive; it sent me to Slytherin without scarcely touching me. I felt right at home in the dungeons; after all, I had spent many happy moments there during the past three years. My Housemates treated me like a princess; undoubtedly their Death Eater parents had passed on the tale of my initiation.

Draco was ostracized due to his family's disgrace, but I sought his company. We were often found together, whether studying, playing Wizard's Chess, or just talking. The other Slytherins chalked it up to pity. Draco was more shrewd.

"That one time I heckled you," the gray-eyed blond said at last, "you said I should choose worthier acquaintances."

I nodded, smiling encouragingly.

"You were right, and I haven't thanked you for not deserting me, Mellarn."

"Marissa."

Draco nodded, leaned over and kissed me. Passion ignited swiftly; soon we were taking our pleasure from each others' arms, mouths and whole bodies. Next morning I woke snuggled into Draco's side, my head tucked under his pointed chin, his stylized fingers weaving lazily through my dark tresses.

"I can't believe Potter threw you away."

I snorted.

"Or that you now belong to the Dark Lord."

I snickered.

"Or that I just took you without his permission!"

I laughed hysterically as Draco jumped out of bed and landed on the floor in an ungraceful heap when his legs tangled in the sheets. My mirth lasted for about fifteen minutes, before I finally took pity on the terrified blond and levitated him back into bed. Lust overcame hilarity, and I proceeded to devour those luscious lips while my hands worked his generous manhood into a frenzy of desire. Soon Draco took control and ravished me, my passionate responses undoing him before long.

"Marissa!"

"My Dragon!"

We clung to each other while our hearts calmed down. I gazed contentedly into those gorgeous silvery orbs, ran my fingers through those silken white-blond locks, mischief on my mind.

"I don't kiss and tell, my Dragon. Don't you, either."

My dalliance with Draco was sweetly fulfilling, and restored our confidence while healing old scars. We both knew it was an act of comfort between two weary souls drawn together by common troubles. Indeed our lustful intimacy had morphed into a platonic friendship by the time the final battle of the war loomed closely enough that the Dark Lord came to Hogwarts himself.

I had forgotten about the tombstone. When the Dark Lord saw it, his wrath was such that he Cruciated me for hours. Draco came after me, and became sick at the sight of my twitching, smoking form. As soon as the Dark Lord Disapparated, my friend nearly flew with me in his arms toward the head office.

Headmaster Snape assessed my condition, smiled, and bid Draco return to the dungeons.

"But sir, she's burning!"

"I suppose you did not hear me acknowledge Miss Mellarn as my equal when I granted her Mastery."

Draco gaped. Then understanding dawned on him, and he withdrew, nerves soothed and smirk firmly in place.

The Skinsuit had held against Lord Voldemort.

Headmaster Snape took me to his private chamber. There he revived me and together we ascertained that the smoking effect was the garment's way of channeling destructive energy away from the bearer. Then my former mentor served us tea, and we sat in peaceful silence. It was a preamble to the inevitable.

"Why, Miss Mellarn?"

I stared into my cup, trying to decide how to answer. Professor Snape locked his obsidian gaze with my amethystine one before I said a word.

"Please do be so kind as to grant me the courtesy due a colleague and peer in every sense of those two terms and do... not... hedge. I am privy to the details of your groundbreaking Masterwork... all of them, Miss Mellarn."

I paled, and felt tears pool in my eyes.

"Poppy? Callista?"

Professor Snape placed a comforting hand on my shaking arm.

"They are both in excellent health, my dear Miss Mellarn. Poppy is currently in her quarters, and Callista moved to America, to the very place where you two met, I believe. I discerned the truth myself."

I begged to be excused while I allowed my emotions to take their course. Professor Snape waited while I reasserted my self-control. I then gave him a resolute nod.

"You had better avail yourself of a Pensieve, headmaster, and brace yourself... it is as Dark as it gets." I gestured emphatically with my left forearm. The professor nodded gravely, and walked back to the main office, from whither he returned with a wide shallow bowl inscribed with runes. I drew forth a copious volume of silvery strands from my temple and allowed them to fall gently into the vessel. Then I made myself comfortable on the professor's couch and settled down to wait.

"This changes everything."

"The Professors Carrow," was my only answer.

Twenty minutes later, our two colleagues were incapacitated. Then commenced several delicious hours of déjà vu. Well, Professor Snape couldn't exactly herniate a portrait's testicles or Cruciate it, but I felt vindicated enough for the moment. After Headmaster Snape reduced his predecessor's portrait self to a quivering heap, he had the old wretch rouse Professor McGonagall, and bid her in turn summon all remaining members of the Order of the Phoenix to the Head Office. Once the company was assembled, the shade of Albus Dumbledore confessed every single Machiavellian intrigue he had contrived.

My delight grew as all Order members took turns heaping umbrage unto their deceased leader's remnant. Yet they knew very well the situation was dire, with a megalomaniac in power and the shade of the resistance's leader blundering about in his dotage. At the very worst, they were looking at the genocide of every Muggle, Muggleborn, disgruntled pureblood and hapless bystander in Britain. Plus they could not condone pitting minors, however brave, against Voldemort and his Death Eaters.

Professor Snape assumed immediate command. He deployed the surviving Dumbledore brother, Aberforth, to find Hermione, Potter and Ronald Weasley before they stumbled into a trap and convey them to Hogwarts with minimum fuss. I quivered in ecstasy when my idiotic ex-husband joined his late idol in the proverbial hot seat. Oh, he was treated comparatively kindly, but still subjected to a glorious session of Professor Snape's vintage vitriol. He coughed up what information he had of the remaining Horcruxes, and handed Founder Helga Hufflepuff's heirloom cup to Headmaster Snape. My former mentor produced a vial of basilisk venom, which he handed to me. I reduced the cup to a smoldering mess, thoroughly enjoying the chagrin on Potter's drawn face.

Next the headmaster summoned the Grey Lady, resident ghost of Ravenclaw Tower, and requested her cooperation with the Horcrux quest. The ghost's information and a couple of deductions later, we all proceeded to the entrance to the Room of Requirement. The Order members persuaded Neville Longbottom to grant us access to the chamber. The gaggle of naïve _jihadis_ actually expected to be allowed to enact their suicidal heroics! Their faces fell and their protests were many as they were ordered to follow their respective Heads of Houses and evacuate the castle. Of course, force had to be used in quite a few stubborn cases, but soon enough everyone underage was out of Hogwarts. Professor Snape and I went to our fellow Slytherins with their options. Draco forsook the one whose Mark we all bore and oversaw our Housemates' evacuation beside Professor Slughorn.

Professor Snape and I hurried back to the now empty Room of Requirement, where the Order members awaited. Potter was still there, guarded by Hermione, who met my gaze and nodded solemnly. Professor Snape requested access to the Room of Hidden Things and summarily set the place ablaze. The headmaster doused the inferno once all within was devoured, and the twisted remains of Founder Rowena Ravenclaw's lost diadem were the only recognizable items among the devastation.

Then Professor Snape and I activated our Marks, summoning the Dark Lord to battle. Once we confirmed the rest of the Death Eaters were on their way to the castle, my former mentor deployed a team of Order members to the Ministry of Magic via the Floo Network. There they liberated those Imperiused left behind and rallied the Magical Law Enforcement troops to sound the alarm to the general public and then proceed to Hogwarts en masse.

I fear I shall disappoint those who enjoy detailed battle descriptions. I was sick and tired of witches and wizards relying so much on their wands, forgetting the best blow is the one you're not there to receive while your opponent does. I spent most of the time removing people from either harm's way or mine by the simple expedient of creeping and pushing. Several idiots refused to stay down; some of those I Stunned, others I drenched in interesting concoctions, and with still others I had to recur to barbaric methods and break their arms, legs or spines. Once again I was no heroine, but I lived and so did many others because of my actions.

Both Lord Voldemort, comic-book villain of pathetic anagrammatic moniker, and Harry Potter, Git Who Lived, learned hell has no fury like a woman scorned. When the Dark Lord called time out and issued Potter a one hour deadline to give himself up or be responsible for the destruction of all he held dear, I locked eyes with Professor Snape. We turned as one toward Potter and Longbottom, and marched them—Disarmed, bound and gagged—to the front lines where my lord waited.

As was his custom, my lord played with his food. This time he humiliated Neville, runner-up Boy Who Lived, with the Sorting Hat. When Longbottom retrieved the Sword of Gryffindor, I cajoled permission to be the one to present the trophy to my lord. I strode up to Neville, and turned the poor youth's lights out with a right hook. Then I returned to the Dark Lord and let myself fall forward into his cold arms in my enthusiasm. What a pity I held the sword ceremonially perpendicular to my lord's gullet! Oops!

By then all hell had broken loose. While I indulged in my own little bit of grandstanding with Neville, Voldemort had set his familiar, Nagini, onto Professor Snape, who fought fire with fire and bathed the giant cobra in basilisk venom. Nagini scored a bite, exposing the whereabouts of the other Skinsuit. Amid the commotion, Hermione Stunned Potter. I walked up to where she stood guard over his and Neville's insensate forms, out of the line of fire. First I revived Neville, healed his broken nose, and handed over Gryffindor's Sword. Then I turned to Potter and restored his memories of my son's conception. After extracting solemn oaths from the three that they would ensure my name was excluded from the credit rolls for that night's deeds, I made myself scarce.

My final act was to trek back to the head office and hurl my last vial of basilisk venom at Albus Dumbledore's portrait. When he and several other dead people—none of them Slytherins, of course—protested vigorously, I only laughed sneeringly.

"Now, now, Professors, why such whining? He still has all those Chocolate Frog cards."


	7. Chapter Seven: Professor

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Seven: Professor**

Once the situation at the Ministry calmed down sufficiently, I sat my NEWT examinations and passed them all with flying colors. I also submitted my research records and garment prototypes. After observing all post-war formalities, I left Britain for my old haunt in America. My parents had passed away and no one remembered me. I joined the faculty at the local Muggle university and taught beside Callista for five years. There I guided many young students into careers in Muggle medicine and life sciences, ever keeping my eyes open for any whiz-kids like I had once been.

One day I arrived home to find a letter from Britain waiting for me. Professor Snape, still Hogwarts Headmaster, wrote to offer me the post of Potions Mistress and Head of Slytherin House, upon Professor Slughorn's second retirement. Callista encouraged me to accept.

"Your dream was to follow in Severus's footsteps. You should finish it."

I suppose all my experiences mellowed me. I felt content with my life in America. Still I obligingly gave the offer due consideration, mulling the issue over until the week before final exams.

I stood looking at the wand I had not wielded in five years. I ran my fingers over it... nine and a half inches, mahogany with a core of unicorn hair: the wand of a Potions Mistress. I sent word of my acceptance to Professor Snape and made all the necessary arrangements for departure. Callista graciously agreed to cover my classes.

"It'll be a breeze thanks to your wonderful organization skills, dear. Why, nobody will even notice you've left at all!"

My cheeks flamed.

August found me back in Britain. Rebuilding had gone well, though there had been a palpable desire to restore everything to its former state. Auror Kingsley Shacklebolt was now Minister of Magic; hopefully he had the forethought to avoid past mistakes. I boarded the Hogwarts Express; it ran practically empty during summer holidays. Finally the towers and turrets of Hogwarts loomed in the distance, drawing nearer as a thestral-drawn carriage conveyed me toward the gate. Half-giant Rubeus Hagrid had rebuilt his famous hut, and there was a young boar hound puppy romping in the garden. Idly I wondered if his name was also Fang. My eyes sought out the areas of the castle I remembered seeing leveled during the final assault. Magic is truly a time saver for some things, although Muggle construction crews too can do a lot in five years. Magic had worked much faster in the Forbidden Forest, though the new growth was easily discernible to the trained eye. I drew a deep breath. There was no clichéd feeling of coming home, but it smelled nice. It would do.

Professor Snape met me at the entrance. Still tall, imposing, wearing his signature billowing black robes... but his skin had lost much of its sallow tint, and his hair flowed silken. His minute curl of a smile revealed sparkling white, though still crooked, teeth. He hadn't worked as Potions Master in five years either. Being headmaster suited him well.

"Professor Mellarn."

"Headmaster Snape."

"Welcome back to Hogwarts. I am honored you consented to return."

"That many dunderheads, headmaster?"

"You have no idea, Professor."

As both our eyes sparkled with mirth, I thought students should be very afraid.

The following years were simply brilliant. I can't remember enjoying myself more. I'm sure my students can attest that the female of the species truly is deadlier than the male. Many times I overheard laments concerning Professor Slughorn's retirement. Nevertheless, Potions, like the Muggle sciences, is no trifle, and professors must strive for their craft's respect.

I occupied those quarters so familiar from my apprentice days. I maintained the décor and furnishings spartan, but visitors remarked they could detect a certain female touch. I wore robes of the same austere design as the headmaster's, varying only their color among dark shades of blue, green, gray, purple and burgundy. I even indulged the fancy of having a few embroidered with serpent and dragon motifs. As a final touch, I wore my hair in a tight braid coiled around my head, often adding reptilian adornments to the ensemble.

My Slytherins were fond and proud of me, striving to please me without uncouthly currying or expecting my favor. The war had done away with most of the old prejudice, but high birth would always be treasured, as it is everywhere. I encouraged family loyalty tempered by critical thinking, and emphasized the need for choosing one's own path carefully. The old rivalries had mellowed except in Quidditch, where the matches would always be intense, hair-rising affairs, as they are worldwide.

My colleagues' old soft spot for me grew into true and honest respect and esteem. I became great friends with Minerva McGonagall, and we were always amused to witness student reactions upon spying the Heads of Slytherin and Gryffindor being so chummy. Nonetheless we both still felt proprietary about the House Cup.

My old friends were delighted to have me close, and they always visited when they came by our alma mater. Hermione Weasley made my quarters one of her regular haunts, as did Draco, who even invited me to his wedding. Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy subsequently included me in their regular guest list for dinner at their manor, and Lucius so approved of my taste in fashion that he had a serpent cane like his old one made specially for me. My students' spooked stares the next few weeks were hilarious.

Two years elapsed before Harry Potter worked up the nerve to knock at my office door. Minerva had announced his visit and nudged him my way. Potter had finished growing and now walked with aplomb—at least until he met my eyes.

"Auror Potter. It is good to see you so well. Please, do sit. Can I offer you anything?"

He had the look of a deer caught in the headlights.

"Pumpkin juice is fine, thanks," he stammered.

I took my sweet time playing the hostess, unnerving him more and more.

"So, Auror Potter. May I inquire how are Madam Potter, young Mr. Potter and young Mr. Lupin?"

He gulped. "Fine, they're all doing excellent."

"That is most wonderful to hear, Auror."

Several moments of tense silence on his part later, Potter exploded.

"Marissa..."

"Professor Mellarn, Auror."

"That's ridiculous, we were..."

"Married, estranged, divorced, buried the son sired on me by Voldemort using your equipment, stood on opposite sides of the battlefield, haven't communicated at all in almost a decade, and now you waltz in here expecting to dispense with formalities of address. Now that's ridiculous, Potter."

He began sweating profusely.

"You still hate me?"

I snorted.

"It would be in keeping with tradition, wouldn't it?"

He jumped a foot in the air at my sneer, and I couldn't suppress raucous laughter.

"Oh, for Salazar's sake, Potter, calm down. Such agitation ill becomes a member of the Auror corps."

He tried to formulate a reply, failed, and stood there looking lost, like the boy he had been when we first met.

"Hate is too strong a word, Auror, and woefully inadequate. You are simply not an important person in my life, and as such do not merit any special concern. However, I bear you or yours no ill will, and shall endeavor to treat you as fairly as the situation demands, and as courteously as is humanly possible."

He nodded dumbly.

"I'm very sorry for everything... Professor."

"Sentiment noted, Auror. It changes nothing, though."

He looked around, desperately searching for a safe conversation topic. He noted the reptile habitat carved into one of the walls.

"_Is that Uma?_"

"_No, Auror. Uma enjoyed the normal lifespan for her non-magical species and passed away three years ago. This is Lilith, a magical king—I should say, queen—cobra_."

"_May I_..."

"_Go ahead, Auror. She will be pleased to meet another Speaker_."

I busied myself with grading while Potter and Lilith conversed. Looking up when he cleared his throat, I noticed his cheeks were flushed. Lilith had a habit of being brutally frank in her use of language; her name wasn't accidental.

"Can I help you, Auror?"

"It's just... Lilith is very, um..."

"Opinionated and prone to bouts of extremely colorful invective? Indeed. It takes a while to get used to it, but once you do it's most entertaining."

Potter's eyes bulged. He wiped his palms on his robes and made to leave.

"I think I should be going, Professor. Thanks for receiving me."

I grinned.

"You are welcome, Auror. Please do convey my regards to your family."

"I'll do that."

"Oh and, Auror?"

"Yes?"

"_Feel free to visit Lilith in future, if you wish_."

Potter blanched, mumbled a farewell and, predictably, bolted.

The headmaster found me still giggling when he came by two hours later. His own beetle black eyes danced.

"Need I ask, Professor?"

"I'm sure you don't, Headmaster."

We smirked at one another.

"True. The sight of a certain esteemed Auror exiting the castle as if a dragon were chasing him was exceedingly eloquent."

"Lilith," I pointed.

"Ah, of course. Did the Auror perchance mention that the Ministry has granted your requests?"

My eyes lit up.

"Is that so? What excellent news, thank you, Headmaster!"

"I've called a staff meeting in half an hour."

"I shall be there. May I offer you refreshments in the meantime?"

"That would be most appreciated, Professor. May I prevail upon you to facilitate a conversation with my lady Lilith?"

"Certainly. I daresay we shall all enjoy it."

My requests to the Ministry of Magic were revolutionary. The first was authorization to procure and raise a basilisk at Hogwarts. He or she would replace the one slain by three wizards' idiocy months before my first arrival in Europe. The new basilisk would dwell in the properly furnished habitat of Slytherin's Chamber. Lilith would act as surrogate mother.

I also requested the creation of a corps of Chamber Wardens. While slander became legend, it was much more logical that Slytherin had left his familiar as protection for his school. Undoubtedly Slytherin expected the threat would come from Muggle technology and superior numbers; his proposal of segregating Muggleborns was meant as a precaution. The other three Founders were staunch idealists; they probably deemed the pragmatic idea too pessimistic for their tastes and summarily vetoed it. The enduring prejudices of class and race did the rest.

Slytherin had been right. The irony was the threat had come partially from within. Yet who could pinpoint from where the next threat would arise? Hogwarts needed both its protector and strict safeguards against misuse. The Chamber Wardens working hand in hand with the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were an answer. Teamwork between the school and the Ministry could prevent, or at least decrease the likelihood, of another war. It was a challenge well worth it.

My initiative was successful in the long run. It helped to have a Slytherin as headmaster, and also that Auror Potter never quite overcame his guilty conscience, and thereby remembered his lesson. Moreover, prejudice against Parseltongue waned as perfectly sane witches and wizards remained so after mastering the serpent language. The Chamber habitat was a herpetologist's jungle paradise at which every incoming first year was required to camp out, that Pallas the basilisk may know her human nestlings.

Eventually Parseltongue became part of the NEWT level Defense Against the Dark Arts curriculum. That subject was no longer the responsibility of a single person, but team-taught by all faculty members. The extracurricular Dueling Club equaled Quidditch in popularity and surpassed the sport in active participation. I could not ask for more.

I received much more, however. Apprentices sought me out as Mistress, some even more industrious that I remembered being. Though I threw everything I had at them, even the less gifted soldiered on, making me and our craft proud. Noteworthy among their achievements was a total cure for lycanthropy in its early stages and a partial cure for the advanced condition that limited transformation to a hybrid form and suppressed change pains. My former apprentices also made advancements in the treatment and prevention of many other magical injuries and maladies. St. Mungo's Hospital was rated among the best of the Wizarding world after the inclusion of the Stillsuit among its technology. I had the poignant honor of seeing others achieve what I personally could not, whether they were expecting witches at high risk or victims of critical injury. Someone even contrived to name a ward in my honor. Then the Skinsuit and its derivatives became standard issue gear for Magical Law Enforcement personnel, making me something of a patron saint to Aurors. I found all this embarrassing to no end. I had no designs on such extravagant accolades.

I taught Potions to the children of the war generation. Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy and Albus Severus Potter were Sorted into my House, therefore gaining me as a parental figure for seven years. It became an endless source of mirth to my close friends, a strange little group soon joined by Ginevra Potter and Astoria Malfoy. Neville Longbottom became my colleague, and I shall never forget how he broke the ice at a staff meeting by praising the strength of my arm. Neville and I worked very closely, each tailoring our curricula to bolster and build upon the other's. We also teamed up for our Defense sessions, and routinely staged demonstrations for the Dueling Club, punches pulled out of courtesy.

One day I found a copy of one of those popular Wizarding history publications on my desk. I thumbed through it until I reached a bookmarked page. It spoke of the greatest Potions Masters in history, and as my eyes followed down the article I assumed the most praised would be Headmaster Snape. I did a double take, pinched myself and grappled for a while with sheer incredulity. Not only did my own face smirk at me from the page, but also, at the end of the biographical blurb, Headmaster Snape was quoted... stating I had surpassed him.

I had not broken down since the war. How long had it been? I was fourteen when I followed Callista to Europe. I was nineteen at war's end. I became Hogwarts Potions Mistress at twenty-five. Now my fiftieth birthday was around the corner. It took me thirty-six years to fulfill my life's dream... and go beyond it. Headmaster Snape doled out praise rarely, and never so expansively; therefore it was true. I had to believe it. Oh, but it was so hard!

The article was the first of my birthday gifts. The party itself was a lavish affair, and as I listened to the speeches, I realized those gathered in my name were actually celebrating themselves. Without each and everyone of them, my dream would never have come true. Callista's words washed over me like a balm. Professor Flitwick nearly made me weep when he did as he granted me Mastery in Charms for my work on the Stillsuit and Skinsuit. Headmaster Snape shocked the audience with his openness, leaving more than a few downright catatonic when his silky baritone shone with honest notes of praise, admiration and affection. Then he called me his Philosopher's Stone and presented me with an Order of Merlin First Class. My heart fluttered and my blood became liquid flame, and it was as if I had suddenly mastered the Animagus transformation. That night my soul was a phoenix—an Augury, for I was never fond of garish hues—and when I finally regained the power of speech all I could say was "Thank you," over and over again.


	8. Chapter Eight: A New Journey

**The Potions Mistress**

**Chapter Eight: A New Journey**

I left on an indefinite sabbatical shortly afterward. There was no dearth of superbly qualified former apprentices of mine to fill my post. I have since traveled the world and the seven seas, as the song goes, posing as a Muggle tourist and sending regular updates and postcards to my friends.

Six years later I stand on a cliff in Ireland's western coast, staring out into the distance. Across the ocean lies my old homeland... I have been there several times in my leisurely tour of the globe. But what next, where to next? I have achieved all my goals and heaps besides.

"What more can I ask for?"

"What about someone to share it all with?"

I know that voice. I whirl abruptly to find myself looking into the fathomless obsidian orbs of my old mentor.

"That is, if you would consent to less august company than your own?"

I am trembling, with what precise emotion I cannot say. He comes closer, places his heavy cloak around my shoulders, and leaves his strong arms there. I lean into his warmth, completely dazed. Magical folk age much more slowly than Muggles, sort of a recompense for our lower numbers. In his seventies, Headmaster Snape still stands tall, lithe and sinewy. I can only discern his age by the slight faltering in his graceful movements, the additional lines in his visage, and the iron gray hue his hair has slowly acquired. He turns my face up gently and traces my profile with those long elegant fingers. I sigh.

"Ever since your return to Hogwarts you have been on my thoughts constantly. I respected and admired you long before that. I could not honorably pursue you then, with all the world before you, ripe for your promise of greatness. Now your previous rhetorical inquiry grants me permission. What say you, my dear lady?"

I close my eyes against his touch. His thumb traces my lips lovingly. I turn fully into him, drawing my arms under his, letting my hands come to rest upon his broad shoulders. His other hand caresses my lower back tenderly. Ever so slowly his hand tilts up my face. He leans forward and our lips meet. At last the cliché feels true. This is home sweet home. He is nectar and I am parched, and it seems ages before we surface from those exquisite depths.

"Headmaster..."

"Severus, my lady."

"Severus..." I whisper. It sounds like velvet, honey wine and deep forests under moonlight.

"Yes, dear lady?"

"I came to Europe because of you. My life's dream was to emulate you. I could never idolize you; you do not lend yourself to that. But I suspect I have always loved you one way or another, then as a child, now as an adult. Still this never occurred to me. Now you are here, and I...

"Yes. I want to see where this leads us... I honestly cannot imagine with whom else I would share the rest of my life."

"Neither can I, my lady."

"Marissa."

"Marissa" he repeats, and his rich baritone reverberates throughout my body. I kiss him passionately, losing myself in that delectable mouth as he plunders mine. At last in the arms of my equal, I discover what it truly means to feel, not just pleasure, but the abiding completeness of pure, unfettered joy.

**The End.**


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